


A Historic Meeting of Three

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: Enjolras introduces Combeferre and Courfeyrac for the first time. Featuring my sometimes headcanon that Enjolras and Courfeyrac are childhood friends.





	A Historic Meeting of Three

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a historical note, apparently in canon era mille-feuille pastries has jam in-between the layers and not cream, like they do today. Who knew!

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says with a dramatic, pronounced yawn. “Why did you drag me out so _early_?”

Enjolras bites his lip against a smile, shooting a fond glance at his old friend. “It’s just past one in the afternoon, Courfeyrac.”

“Yes of course but I was up until nearly five in the morning you see,” Courfeyrac complains, stretching his arms above his head and yawning again.

“Mhmmm.” Enjolras take a sip of his coffee, hot and with just a touch of cream. “Out with that Bahorel fellow again were you?”

“I was!” Courfeyrac takes a large swallow of his own coffee, even his curls looking limp from exhaustion. “He introduced me to this fellow Prouvaire, and both of them would like to meet you.” Courfeyrac pauses, looking out into the street from their café table. “Speaking of meeting people, where is your friend? Wasn’t he supposed to be here a few minutes ago?”

“He gets a bit…distracted…” Enjolras admits, chuckling. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

Courfeyrac adjusts his cravat, smoothing it out after it was more hastily arranged than usual. “Well I’m getting rather impatient for a pastry, so hopefully you’re right.”

Enjolras looks out into the street, searching around for the now familiar face. He’d met Combeferre several times now, the two of them spending their time sunk into deep political discussions—sometimes peppered with vigorous debate—and getting to know each other. Even when they disagreed Enjolras felt exceedingly comfortable with Combeferre in a way he’d only experienced before with well, Courfeyrac, who he’d known since the age of twelve. They both grew up in Marseilles, and Combeferre in Avignon. After a few more minutes Enjolras spies Combeferre through the crowd, recognizing the tall figure and the reddish dark brown hair and the spectacles. Enjolras smiles again when he sees that Combeferre’s coat isn’t buttoned straight, his bag slipping from his shoulder in his haste to reach them.

“My sincere apologies,” Combeferre says as he comes up to the table, pushing his sliding spectacles up his nose. “I got to reading this collection of Condorcet’s essays you see, and lost track of the time!”

“Quite all right.” Enjolras indicates the chair next to him and Combeferre sits down, eager for the coffee already waiting for him, the steam curling up into the cool late autumn air. “Courfeyrac, this is my new friend Combeferre I’ve been telling you so much about. Combeferre, this is my childhood friend Courfeyrac from Marseilles, and new to Paris like we are.”

“I’m quite pleased to meet you,” Courfeyrac says, reaching out and shaking Combeferre’s hand. Enjolras noticed the unsure look on his face as Combeferre approached, clearly wondering what sort of unique person Enjolras had befriended, but a fond grin broke out across his face as Combeferre started speaking, clearly charmed. “Enjolras can’t stop talking about you at all, you see. And if someone has Enjolras’ good opinion, I tend to believe they are surely worthy of meeting.”

Combeferre blushes, taking the first sip of his coffee after adding some sugar. “Well, Enjolras and I have learned quite a bit from one another. And had some interesting debates. I think it’s a true sign of friendship when you might disagree on tactics even as you agree on the same ideal.”

“He says you are quite the debater,” Courfeyrac answers. “And while using an economy of words. Impressive.”

“And he says _you_ are rather impassioned.” Combeferre gives Courfeyrac a wry grin, raising a single eyebrow.

Courfeyrac laughs, smacking his hand on the table, and Enjolras feels a particular sort of warmth filling up his chest: he’d felt _certain_ they’d like one another, and it looks as if he was right.

“Well,” Courfeyrac continues. “If you were late meeting us because you were reading Condorcet I can tell you’re the sort of person I’d prefer to be friends with. Enjolras is astonishingly punctual, but…” Courfeyrac leans over toward Enjolras, a teasing glint in his dark green eyes. “Sometimes he reads in the evening and forgets the time entirely and then falls asleep with the book in his hands. I’ve caught him at since we were young, and when he started reading political materials—ones his father might not entirely have approved of—it only got worse.”

“Says the man who was out until five in the morning when he knew he was meeting me today,” Enjolras argues, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair.

“Five in the morning?” Combeferre questions. “Might I ask what you were up to?”

“For that story,” Courfeyrac replies, his eyes twinkling with delight. “I’ll need some pastry first.”

They order three mille-feuilles, the jam perfectly sweet on Enjolras’ tongue as he listens to Courfeyrac talk about going from one party to another, an incorrect address, and a discussion of the merits of hashish between Bahorel and Prouvaire.

“Bahorel and Prouvaire are proper republicans as well,” Courfeyrac says in a conspiratorial whisper. “Though I think Bahorel will get arrested for the sheer audacity of his waistcoats, one day. Prouvaire’s a poet and you can tell: he tries his hardest to dress like someone from a medieval court, but it does seem to please him.”

“Perhaps with all of these potential new friends we can form one of the societies you were speaking of Enjolras.” Combeferre raises his coffee cup in Enjolras’ direction with a wide smile, a hint of shyness remaining.

Enjolras pushes a stray piece of hair behind his ear, the strands grown overlong, but he keeps forgetting to cut it, and Courfeyrac tells him he looks like a cherub the longer it grows. “I should like nothing better.”

“Hear hear!” Courfeyrac agrees, draining the last of his coffee. “I’d say we could meet Bahorel and Prouvaire tonight, but I think they said they were going to explore a cemetery?”

“A _what_?” Enjolras asks.

“Fascinating!” Combeferre says simultaneously.

Enjolras and Combeferre catch each other’s eyes, chuckling at their different reactions.

“I didn’t know you were a believer of ghosts,” Enjolras remarks, intrigued simply because Combeferre sounds intrigued, and his enthusiasm tends toward infectious. “I supposed I assumed you weren’t, given you’re studying medicine.”

“Well I wouldn’t say I am exactly,” Combeferre explains. “But they could exist. I don’t have proof either way.”

Courfeyrac studies Combeferre in the way Enjolras knows indicates a growing partiality, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“Well if we want to go to the cemetery with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t be opposed,” Courfeyrac adds. “Besides, if anyone bothered us, Enjolras is learning canne de combat, I’m sure he could protect us.”

“Oh,” Enjolras protests, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” Courfeyrac prods Enjolras directly in the chest with one finger. “You are unnaturally talented at it, and you were already ridiculously good at fencing, and you can shoot. It’s unjust you’re allowed to be so good at all of it. Wouldn’t you agree, Combeferre?”

Combeferre swallows back an obvious chuckle, raising both of his eyebrows. “Entirely, yes.”

“Teaming up against me already,” Enjolras complains. “That didn’t take long. So, what does Prouvaire want to do at the cemetery with Bahorel?”

“I’m not…entirely sure, only that they invited me and muttered something about the souls of dead poets,” Courfeyrac explains. “Prouvaire was talking a great deal about Coleridge when he mentioned it, though he’s still alive, so obviously not the one they’ll be communing with. At least I don’t think so.”

“Sounds like an adventure,” Combeferre says, cleaning the remaining pastry crumbs and jam from his plate with his fork. “And I’d like to meet them. Besides, as you said, Enjolras can protect us from any nefarious characters. Or even nefarious ghosts, perhaps.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac agrees, his voice resting on the edge of a laugh. “His golden hair glows in the moonlight, you know. Scares ghosts right off.”

Enjolras tosses his napkin directly at Courfeyrac’s face, Courfeyrac’s delighted laugh bursting into the air.

“Well,” Combeferre remarks, dryly amused. “I suspect with the two of you as my friends, I will never be bored.”

“No,” Enjolras says, fighting back a laugh as Courfeyrac cleans the stray jam from the napkin off his face. “I suppose you won’t.”


End file.
